


Shiver

by rexluscus



Series: Shiver [1]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Besotted Ben, Body Worship, F/M, Femdom, Fluffy Ending, Humiliation, Past Ben/OFC, Redeemed Ben, Rey explores the fuck outta Ben's body, Shame, TLJ-compatible but no spoilers, Tickling, Unbashful Virgin Rey, overcoming shame, scopophilia, that's it that's the story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-28 12:08:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13271151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rexluscus/pseuds/rexluscus
Summary: Once she gets Ben naked, Rey intends to take a good long look.





	Shiver

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for [this prompt at reylohardkinks](https://reylohardkinks.tumblr.com/post/167355891433/rey-isnt-very-familiar-with-human-anatomy-and). Thanks to Aetole for beta-reading!
> 
> Look, we're in the future after Ben has somehow joined Rey's side. That's all you need to know.
> 
> Also, Rey is very innocent in this fic. If that weirds you out, take care.

Rey doesn't kiss like a normal person. She kisses like she's hungry. Literally—just like he's seen her in the mess hall devouring a bowl of stew. It worries Ben at first, but once he considers her history with food, he finds himself rather touched. She kisses him like it's her last chance, like she's afraid he'll be taken away from her.

Still, she _could_ look him in the eye occasionally. She attacks him as if he's a disembodied mouth, with undistractable intensity, a small furrow in her brow—no caress, no affectionate looks, no attempt at _sexy,_ whatever that means. Within seconds of working out how mouths fit together, she was slurping and sucking and nibbling him like she'd just discovered ice cream (which she hasn't yet; he might very well lose her favor once she does). First his mouth, then later his chin and eyebrows and collar bone. He's not even sure she _enjoys_ it. When he rubs up against her presence in the Force, he doesn't feel sensual pleasure from her, exactly. Her feelings more closely resemble covetousness. Just this blind pressure to _have._

He supposes he should be flattered, but he does have his own needs. He tries to slow her down by stroking her hair and arms and back, by pulling away and trying to add some _nuance_ to their kisses—not that he's any good at nuance, but no person let alone a girl has touched him with affection since he became Kylo Ren, and he craves more than just raw contact. He never gets the chance to ask—they don't exactly talk—so he tries to pour his desires into his hands and mouth, hoping she'll get the message. She never quite does.

But—Rey _wants_ him, and that's novel enough. The last time Ben had sex, he was twenty-one years old, trailing after Luke Skywalker on his quest for the origins of the Jedi Order. Ben was full of enthusiasm for this quest at the time, but also for other things, so the moment they landed on a planet where Ben could get out from under Luke's watchful eye, he found a cantina, bought a drink, and made long, uncomfortable eye contact with the first girl he saw until she came over to his table to ask him what his problem was.

"You're pretty," he said.

She looked him over. "You're young."

Apparently this was enough for her, because five minutes later, she led him several blocks down the street to the flophouse where she lived with six or seven other semi-destitutes, two of whom looked up without interest from an inane program on a holo-player as she pulled Ben through their smokey common room. For all his naïveté, Ben gathered that people like him were not an uncommon sight. In her bedroom, she put him down on a bare mattress, where they fucked silently with their clothes on.

As offputting as the situation was, something about it excited him—the shock of this unfamiliar way of living, and the shameful thrill of being co-opted by a stranger with no interest in him one way or another, of being _just a body_ while his mind floated off somewhere else. He came embarrassingly soon, after which the woman rebuffed his clumsy efforts to get her off, then wandered out to join her cohorts, leaving him to wash off his face and his dick in her tiny refresher. He passed back through the front room without acknowledging her, and she didn't so much as glance at him.

Out on the street, the shame that had gotten him off so quickly faded into ordinary shame, and he wandered with a hollow, twisting sensation in his chest that increased the more he dwelt on what had happened. Details he hadn't processed in the moment trickled in—the way the woman had fished his dick out of his underwear with mild distaste, her bored face as she'd bounced on him like a hobby horse, her roommates' indifference as he passed momentarily through their wretched lives. Dimly, it occurred to him what a sad, desperate person that woman was, how little room her life must have left her to consider the feelings of some kid merely looking to get laid. But that didn't make him any more charitable. He felt only the pain of being disregarded, of not mattering, of being a mere _thing_ in a galaxy of struggling beings as selfish as himself.

It was a relief to return to his uncle, who narrowed his eyes and asked Ben where he'd been—as if he didn't know—then told him excitedly about the 3,000-year-old clay tablet he'd found at a bazaar while Ben was fucking a stranger on a moldy mattress. It recorded a fragment of an ancient civilization's philosophy of the Force, which they called something different, a word Luke had never seen before but hoped to find someone who could translate. While he talked, Ben decided that from then on, he would care for nothing but the Force. _That_ was what made his body valuable—that was why he existed.

 

Rey doesn't care why he exists. He exists for _her,_ and as much as he feels unnervingly devoured alive, he likes letting her take what she wants. All things considered, he wouldn't mind if she consumed him entirely.

The third time they're alone in her berth, she pulls him down and bites her way up from his shoulder to his ear, then asks, "When are we going to take our clothes off?"

Startled, he glances at her face. This may be the longest sentence she's spoken since they began.

"That _is_ what people do, isn't it? When they do this sort of thing?" There's nothing remotely coy in her expression, just earnest, unblinking curiosity.

"Well, yes," he says, his dick getting harder.

"Okay." She nods and stands back. "You first."

"Wait." He swallows. "Why me?"

"Because I've never seen a man naked before," she says, as if this should be obvious, "and before we do anything I just want to _see._ "

He considers it with a cold shiver. He's never liked being looked at, let alone scrutinized like an exotic beetle. But the humiliation excites him, as it always does—the same confusing arousal he feels whenever he's vulnerable and exposed. He hates it, yet it tugs on him compulsively, promising a thrill he can't resist. The thrill of falling into space. Of ceasing to _be._

"All right," he says, and begins pulling off his shirt.

He doesn't bother to strip slowly, since Rey clearly has no interest in a sensual display. Which is just as well; if asked to do that, he truly _would_ refuse. He tugs his feet out of his boots, tosses his shirt and trousers in a pile, then pulls down his briefs as quickly as he can, like ripping off a bandage.

He draws himself upright with his arms at his sides. "Well?"

"Now lie down," she orders.

His dick twitches. She really _is_ going to study him like a beetle.

Shivering with nauseous excitement, he arranges himself face-up on her bed, his limbs pulled in close as if he's a patient on an operating table, and squeezes his eyes shut.

She crawls over him on her hands and knees, eager and unself-conscious, and puts her face very close. Mercifully, she starts at the top and not the bottom. The thought of her looking squarely at his dick right now overwhelms him; it's troubling enough that he can sense her gaze moving over him inch by inch, as if she's examining every hair and mole through a magnifying glass. He wonders what she's seeing, trying to picture his flesh from the outside, but he can only imagine his queasily pale, sporadically hairy skin, interrupted by webs of white scar tissue. He hopes, at least, that she doesn't have much to compare him to.

He jerks when her fingertips brush his chest. "I liked seeing this," she murmurs. "It didn't look like mine at all." She traces the contour of his pectoral, then lightly pinches his nipple, testing its consistency. He makes a high sound. He is a frog dissected and pinned open, the naturalist's cold instrument poking the tender contents of his insides—only he's alive and the dissector can see his organs squirm with each clinical touch. He flushes from his hair down to his chest.

She releases his nipple. "Did that hurt?" she asks with a note of concern.

"No," he says in a tight voice.

"What _did_ it feel like?"

He considers several glib replies, but she won't be satisfied with anything less than a specific answer. He thinks for a moment. "Sharp," he decides. "But…good."

"Like something cold," she supplies.

"A bit."

His face burns hotter. It takes effort to get these words out, to admit he's enjoying this, to speak without guile as this woman who could crush his heart with one hand pokes and prods at his body.

Without warning, his nipple is enveloped in a mouth. Her tongue swirls around it and he lets out a cry, his dick rising enough to brush against her bony knee.

She pulls away. "What did _that_ feel like?"

"Warm." He tries to untense his muscles and slow his breathing. "But also good."

She lifts up from him and her fingers alight on his brow, which without noticing he has drawn uncomfortably tight. "You look like you're in pain."

The only thing worse than shame is other people _noticing_ his shame, so he exhales discreetly and wills the muscles of his face to relax. A pang of self-consciousness follows, as if he's taken off a mask, as if he's shown her all his pitiful secrets. But doesn't she know all about those already? Sick with self-loathing, he waits anxiously for her to look away from his face and back down to his body, which at least he can imagine is a bit less _him_.

Finally she resumes her attention to his chest, and her fingers migrate to his arms, which she picks up one by one to trace up and down their muscles and veins. "Your arms are heavy. You're very top-heavy in general. It's a wonder you don't fall over. Have you ever tried to climb anything?"

"Not recently."

She returns to his chest, which seems to fascinate her, and rubs her palms thoroughly across its surface, the texture of her callouses making him prickle all over. Then she moves down to his ribs, her cold little fingertips finding ticklish spots. She's delighted by his squirming, and she does what she can to cause more. He hates the involuntary smile the sensation provokes, remembering the mixture of pleasure and humiliation and finally anger he felt when his parents tickled him as a child.

She pauses. "Does this feel good or bad?"

"A little of both."

She considers this, then tries a different kind of touch, firmer, slower. When he doesn't squirm, she resorts back to the lighter touch and he shrinks away again, unable to suppress a noise that's as close to a laugh as he's gotten for years. "Stop!" he snaps, frustrated that his discomfort isn't more obvious to her. But he's still aroused, even more than before, so he can hardly blame her.

"We're coming back to this," she says resolutely, then draws her fingers down below his rib cage to the softer region of his belly. That doesn't tickle quite as much, but his abdominal muscles tense up and she draws back her hands. "Your skin is so sensitive," she says with wonder.

"Isn't yours?" He can't help hearing disapproval, even though she expresses nothing but the delight of discovery.

"I don't know, really. I guess if you do this to me, we'll find out."

A molten sensation floods his stomach at the thought of doing this to her.

She reaches his navel. "You have more hair here than I do."

"Probably true in general." He's beginning to find her curiosity soothing, less like she's peeling his skin off and more like they're watching an amusing sight together.

She strokes the grooves betweeen his abdominals and obliques, prods at his navel, then tugs gently at the hairs that lead down to his groin. His lower belly is ticklish too, and she makes the muscles there jump over and over before he finally curls away so emphatically that she relents. Instead, she turns to explore the thinner, hairless skin between his belly and hipbone. That tickles him less and arouses him more, and his dick bobs up another fraction toward his belly.

"Oh! It moved!"

"Yeah, it…does that sometimes." Her eyes, now fixed firmly on his dick, make his embarrassment flood back. It's like being a teenager again, afraid and ashamed of the bizarre things his body has begun to do.

"Is that normal?"

"I think so. Um"—he's never said anything like this to anyone—"it does that whenever you do something that feels good."

"Okay, I'll remember this spot," she says, with a seriousness that suggests she's going to note it down in a diary.

He breathes harder as she runs her fingers down the crease of his hip to his dick, and he shivers when her thumbs brush lightly over his bush. He's too turned on to mind her open gaze on his bare groin—not the way he'd minded her watching his cringing face. Now he wants her to devour him with her eyes and her hands. He's as erect as he can get, his whole body shuddering in waves.

"You're panting," she points out.

"Yeah."

"I guess I do too when _I_ touch myself."

He pictures her touching herself and it's all he can do not to come.

Finally, finally, her fingers alight on his balls and trail up the underside of his dick, feather-light and exquisite. He groans uninhibitedly, eyelids fluttering. He can't think anymore, can't worry, his craving for touch crowding everything else out.

"That feels good?" she asks, all innocent wonder.

"You have no idea."

"It's warm! I didn't realize it would be so warm."

He manages a stiff laugh. "Half my blood has rushed to it by now."

"Does it always look like this?" Her finger grazes the tip and he moans. "All stand-uppy? Surely not—I'd have noticed."

"No," he gasps. "It's just—because you're touching it."

"It feels nice, then?"

"Rey—" He loses the last of his composure. "Rey—keep touching it."

She presses harder on the shaft with her fingertips, exploring its texture. It's almost unbearable. With her other hand, she scoops up his balls. "These are funny."

"Be careful with those," he gets out between breaths. "They're—delicate."

"Oh—sorry." She lets them go.

"No, no, it's fine. Just don't squeeze them too hard."

She rolls them thoughtfully in her palm, testing their weight. "This skin feels different from the rest of you. As if you've sat in the water too long." She puts her nose very close to them, and he flashes back to the first girl who ever saw them and flatly told him how weird they looked. But Rey's scrutiny never belittles. She is entirely free of shame, and without any interest in _his_ shame. She pets his balls with a maddeningly light touch, squeezes them gently as if testing the ripeness of a fruit, then puts them carefully back.

"Okay, now for this thing." She wraps her thumb and finger around his shaft, just below the head.

"Just—grab it with your whole hand," he moans. "Squeeze it."

She hesitates. "Will that hurt?"

"No, stars no—please!"

She takes a firm grip on his shaft and he arches his neck, mouth falling open as she discovers how the skin of his dick can slip up and down, enveloping the head and then withdrawing. He lets out an undignified grunt each time she does it, and she giggles. "This doesn't feel like anything I've ever touched before."

He groans and shudders. "Keep doing that. Touch the tip. Not too hard!" His body jerks when her calloused finger drags across it too roughly. She doesn't apologize, but on the next pass, she touches him with the softer skin between her thumb and forefinger. "Use the—the loose skin." He's too desperate to mince words, just needing to make it _happen._ "Pinch it so it rubs over the tip."

She obliges, and he lets out such a loud moan that she does it more times with mounting speed. His balls tingle and his muscles bunch up. It occurs to him that this may be the best moment of his life.

"Stop!" he cries.

She stops. "Does it still hurt?"

"No, I just—" He teeters dizzily on the brink. "I don't want this to end yet."

She lets go of his foreskin, but can't resist the bare tip, pressing on it, enjoying its springiness. "So odd," she murmurs. "No other part of you feels this way. It's like you're missing a layer of skin. And it's—it's leaking mucus. Is that normal?"

"Yeah."

"Okay." She smears it around with her thumb.

Finally, he can stand it no longer.

"Just grab the whole thing," he begs without thinking. "Do what—what you were doing before."

She gives him a thorough, satisfying stroke, gripping him round and pulling his dick from root to tip. It's so easy to let go. He comes hard, in one rolling, pulsing spasm, mouth hanging open in a long, trailing groan.

Even as bliss washes through him, he recalls that he hadn't warned her what would happen. Indeed, as soon as his come spurts up over her fist, she drops his dick and jerks back, leaving it to twitch and spend itself on its own.

As he pants in the aftermath, she says, "Oh!"

"Yeah," he says faintly. "Sorry." He isn't, really. And he knows by now that she doesn't actually mind.

She prods the fluid on his belly and spreads it around as if she's fingerpainting. "It's thick," she observes with mild surprise. "And warm." He opens his eyes just in time to see her put her finger in her mouth, and his balls give an echoing pulse. "Yep, tastes like mucus." She frowns in contemplation. "Only more bitter. Like licking metal."

"It's not the best," he admits.

"Oh, it's shrinking." She runs a finger down his oversensitive dick as it sags onto his thigh.

"Yeah." His eyes slip shut. "It does that."

"Ah, I understand now!" She sounds tremendously pleased with herself. "It gets hard, you touch it for a bit, and then—that happens—and then it gets soft again."

"Right." He smiles faintly, eyes still closed. That pocket of shame that usually opens in his chest after he comes fills up with her enthusiasm, and he drifts in uncomplicated pleasure, enclosed by the warmth of her delight.

She smears her fingers around his wet groin a bit longer, then wipes them off on the bedsheets and clambers back up his body. To his surprise, she kisses him on the mouth, fitting her lips gently between his and lingering there. She strokes his hair back as she pulls away. "Did that feel nice?" she asks, more earnestly than he's ever heard a human being sound.

He can't think of anything to say except, "Yeah."

He wants to touch her, pull her down and hold her. But she has already nestled against his side and is running her rough palm hungrily over his chest and shoulders and belly and groin, and he finds he'd rather let her hold him _._ She reaches between his legs and cups his genitals—affectionately, as if she were cradling a pet. In the pleasant ebb of sexual release, her touch is nothing but comforting. He has never felt so fully embraced.

"You're lovely." Her voice is muffled by his shoulder. "I like your body a lot."

"It's yours." He turns his face into her hair. "You can do with it whatever you want."

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I realize Rey's moment of embarrassment in TLJ kinda conflicts with how I've characterized her here, but I'm going with the excuse that she hated Kylo at the time.
> 
> Come cry with me about Star Wars on [Tumblr](http://rex-luscus.tumblr.com)!


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